


Online Fans

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: TD Mal Is A Snuff Director AU [1]
Category: Total Drama
Genre: Beating, Burning, Filthy, Gore, M/M, Omorashi, Snuff, Video, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To avoid civilization, he'd need lodgings, and to get lodgings, he'd need money. To make money, Mal would do what he did best, with the people he loved to torment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Online Fans

**Author's Note:**

> mal would direct snuff films dont even deny
> 
> the au is sort of based on the Mal's Adoring Fans series, yeah

To avoid civilization, he'd need lodgings, and to get lodgings, he'd need money. To make money, Mal would do what he did best, with the people he loved to torment.

It wasn't as though he lacked the talent to get a "normal" job, moreso that he didn't want to. He had a talent for torture no other man had, and it was the only thing that really interested him. Pure pornography was legal, for certain, but he had no interest in sex. If it was a job Vito would be better off doing than him, then it wasn't the job for him at all, to be quite frank.

Besides, he had dealt with the others awhile ago. Hopefully they wouldn't ruin this for him. Especially Mike, the gawky, stick-legged, spindly boy he was. This was simply Mal's way of evening certain odds from his younger years. Now a matured 19-year-old, he had nothing to lose. 

He had to keep a few things in line. His actors were people he knew, but he couldn't kill them. He'd only kill them if they tried to tell someone. Considering the demeanor of his beloved, there wasn't a high possibility with him, but the other one would be a bit of a challenge. He'd have to break him good, for certain, but no brash action could be done without fault. All of the work had to be done properly.

He rifled through his actors' things quite a bit, stealing private journals, cell phones, keepsakes, anything else he could get his hands on. It wasn't hard, really. One lived alone, and the other had gone out for the night to suck down alcohol like nobody's business. When he walked into the bar saying he'd help his "friend" home, nobody thought to question it.

Stupid, backwater folk.

He conducted his work in a vast, abandoned warehouse. It was perfect for filming. Empty, hidden away, with lots of space as well as supplies hidden within. Though the tools he had collected over the years were nifty, he was no Swiss Army Knife. There was enough rope in storage to hold his victims down, tied together by the arms and sitting back to back. 

It took him quite awhile, to get a camera and tripod. It just sort of never came to him that he would need one, he was too busy with all of the other preparations. He had to get the money from Watson, a friend from juvie back in the day. Poor sap didn't even question his motivation on the matter.

His victims remained asleep, so he ran off to the old coffee maker off in the halls. Somehow it was still working. Good thing, too, he'd need the caffeine to keep filming this all night. He made himself a cup, going through each diary. The only sport he was good at was the sport of getting up in other people's business. It was rather interesting, reading old logs back from season 1 of that dumb show he had been on.

His coffee finished just in time, when he began to hear voices.

_"Sh...shit, shit."_

It was nice to hear a voice. A few grunts rang out. The usual things a captor would expect to hear when the spoils wake up. Then came the heavy breathing, with a bit of a wheeze, perhaps due to light asthma or something along those lines. He poured himself a second hot cup and went back to the largest room.

_"Do you know what the deal is? Lemme out."_

The lanky, gangly one had awoken. He hadn't changed much from the years before. Still scrawny, ugly, with bad teeth and orange hair. A moderate stubble, and some little freckles dotting his cheeks, wearing some pajama pants patterned with UFOs and a Zazzle shirt reading 'If it Fits, I Sits'.

 _"Oh, no no."_ He dumped a bit of the hot coffee down his shirt, causing him to go rigid and squeal in an oddly effeminate voice. The action was repeated on the still-sleeping drunkard, who would have most likely fallen if not for the bindings.

_"Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Big fat shit!"_

_"Fuck, this burns!"_

Oh, how he relished in the sight. He pulled the first's shirt away from his back, and poured down the first paper cup, then tossing it away. He hadn't even drawn any blood, and already, this was quite fun. 

_"You're only on video, soon. Maybe the videos will get on Sierra's blog."_

_"Mal."_ The second one knew him. The one who now had an undercut, and still a many piercings on his face. His eyes widened at the sight, as though Mal were some kind of monster...Which he was, to be very fair.

_"Drunken Duncan, pale and punkin'."_

_"I told you I would never talk to you again."_

_"You also owed me a favor. I did stand by you in juvie, after all."_

His head still seemed to swim with the aftereffects of hard drinking. The lids of his eyes fluttered slightly, to clear away the blur in his vision, Mal supposed. He always expected Duncan to be a big drinker in his elder years, though how he got his hands on any of that stuff was beyond his comprehension.

Duncan Fly was his pretty little boy, and he'd never let him go again.

The first one was beginning to get impatient with Mal taking his time, fawning over Duncan. Or perhaps, it was a vengeful expression, after seeing his longtime enemy. The one who fed him grease and stole his clothing for such a petty reason, if any.

_"Oh, and Harold. Poor, misguided, ugly creature."_

_"Hey, I have a girlfriend."_

_"LeShawna? She'd rather you be dead. Disgusting as you are."_

He looked a bit offended, and pulled his knees up to his chest. Since Mal had finally turned the camera on, he figured folks would want to see Harold's face. He took a sledgehammer from the wall. Oh, he brought that sledgehammer everywhere. He couldn't keep his knees pulled up like that, so Mal gave them a tap, or rather, a smash.

The left knee wasn't meant to bend that way. An ear-blasting, blood-curdling scream scraped its way out of Harold's throat. Even Duncan was swearing, a cacophony of curse words and cries of agony. Mal let a hissing, snorting laughter escape him.

_"Oh Duncan, you're so considerate in your own way."_

The screams had slowly devolved into puffy breaths, Harold twitching and leaning back against Duncan's shoulder. His leg was completely displaced, sticking up at almost a perfect right angle, with the joint bending in the direction opposite of which it was supposed to. Gore pooled under the wound, working its way deep into the fluffy threads of his patterned PJs.

 _"Don't kill us-- me."_ Duncan thoughtlessly pleaded, eyes wide and irises dangling in the direction the destroyed joint. 

_"Are you worried for him? I thought you hated each other."_

_"No, I..."_

He had no excuse, really. Nobody could honestly believe he was bad through and through, at this point. The joint was smashed, probably rendered unusable for life. Mal pulled the leg away with loud rips and tears. It came separate, and he threw it away.

_"Take me home."_

_"You're in no place to be so demanding."_

He placed his hand on Duncan's shoulder, ready to make this film just a bit more interesting. He had plans, of course. This took months to work on, after all, and his victims knew they weren't going anywhere without a little bit of pain.

_"Now. Give me the signal when it becomes too much, Duncan. I'll leave you alone, for a bit."_

_"Why aren't you hammering his legs off?"_ Harold was an annoying one, Mal had found. He asked too many stupid questions. Wasn't it obvious, at this point? Why couldn't he tell?

_"Because I love him, and I hate you."_

His figure laid limply over the tied-up delinquent, the boy who he'd ever treasure. A hand dove into the front pocket, tossing out a knife and a lighter. Most likely Duncan's belongings, or perhaps they were shoplifted. The knife was sharp, as Mal learned by swiping the blade against his hand. It left a large, but not very deep slice in his palm. He wiped the excess blood on Duncan's face. He could use a bit of color in his flesh.

The tip dug ever-so-slightly into the bone of his nose, dipping downward into the mass of cartilage between his nostrils. He tore the piercing out, but Duncan wouldn't scream, he'd only hiss and whine. His resilience was ever-so-charming, as it had always been. 

His fingernails dipped between the seam on his nose, splitting each side apart until all he could see was bone. With his bare hands, which mind you, were strong enough to break an entire GameGuy and cell phone, split the bridge cleanly in two pieces. That seemed to be his breaking point, as he smacked his palm on the concrete floor. His mouth remained shut, but Mal still got the message.

_"Sorry, I got carried away."_

_"You're not."_

His attentions turned to Harold. Harold, who was still huffing off the intense pain of his leg. Harold, who would feel pain for Mal's beloved, who wasn't ready. Mal could have cared less about him. He lifted up the hammer and swung it harshly into Harold's abdomen, so hard he regurgitated. A filthy soup of half-eaten pancakes coated his bony chest. Mal wasn't interested in Harold, but he loved those reactions of his.

The motion repeated. This time it was blood, and a violent spurt of urine from the hole 'on the opposite side'. He was frail, awfully frail, and to end it all he set Harold's gingery locks ablaze. The flame hastily worked its way to his scalp, melting away the flesh. Everything went so fast, he couldn't even describe it in his head, the victim with blood dribbling down his chin and piss sinking through the fabric of his bloodied pajamas.

He was about to light the back of Harold's head as well.

_"Mal, stop."_

_"Did he say he was done?"_

_"You're scaring him, he's terrified."_

Harold pushed out another harsh breath.

_"Gosh, I don't care."_

_"You don't sound like you don't care."_

_"What the fuck do you know, all you ever did was be horrible to me."_

There was no rebuttal. Duncan simply lowered his head. 

_"I'll help you home, if..."_

_"Yeah, I know."_

Mal sighed, flicking off the camera. This was worth posting, but he simply couldn't destroy his beloved under these conditions. It felt too secure, he guessed, since Duncan had somebody to speak to. Perhaps these were thoughts to consider next time, he didn't have all night to free these two, after all. Not only that, but he didn't want his film getting bogged down by feelsy dialogue. 

He undid the rope without much thought, worry or care. The two fell atop one another in a big heap, and Mal made his exit.

Perhaps, this was good practice.

**Author's Note:**

> again, rushed ending. i might go back and edit this so sorry


End file.
